A Vulgar Man
by fleurs-du-mol
Summary: He forgets about it until much later, on a day when John comes home from the clinic in a bitingly angry mood, his eyes dark and troubled. Sherlock, wearing only his dressing gown, watches him pace along the perimeter of the sitting room. Sarah accused him of cheating, and she's right, of course, although she accused him of seeing a female patient.


When the thought first occurs to him, Sherlock's riding John's cock. The thought isn't one he usually has in that position, but it's so pervasive that he can't ignore it, prioritize it, as well as he ought. John is spread out beneath him, his hand clenched strategically, wanking him off.

That's the problem with two men having sex, muses Sherlock: someone's dick always lacks a willing hole. His mind flashes to the sight of him being the one fucking _John_, John being the one losing it, coming across _his_ taut stomach and chest. Despite himself, the image makes him thrust faster, more urgently. John, never to be concerned by any enthusiasm in that department, sighs and moans, Sherlock's urgency spurring his own. They finish nearly at the same time. Seeing white before his eyes roll back into his head, darkness, Sherlock gives a low groan and his come gushes through John's splayed fingers. Almost immediately he feels his arse grow warm and wet, as though John's been waiting for him.

Sherlock misses that; he misses waiting for a partner to orgasm before him, misses the sense of power and control it can bring that enhances the slip of sweat and flesh.

He only has a moment to savor the look of pained ecstasy on John's face before the army doctor, relinquishing his cock, puts a hand to his neck and pulls him down to meet his mouth. Sherlock knows that this is a respite for him, an act of physicality that affirms the fact that he is alive, and not only alive but loved and wanted. The sound John makes is closest to a purr, a throaty syllable of contentment.

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock is reticent to tell him that next time, he wants to be the one thrusting inside, parting his legs, causing him to tremble and go weak before everything is done.

* * *

He forgets about it until much later, on a day when John comes home from the clinic in a bitingly angry mood, his eyes dark and troubled. Sherlock, wearing only his dressing gown, watches him pace along the perimeter of the sitting room. Sarah accused him of cheating, and she's right, of course, although she accused him of seeing a female patient.

Weeks ago, Sherlock recalls, they'd discussed their preferences. He had seen men and women at university, being more opportunistic than thoughtful; John, during his time in the army, had experimented with men. When a close lover had been blown up in front of him during a routine training maneuver, he thought he'd be most content as a civilian seeing exclusively women. Then he met Sherlock, and Sherlock ruined the assumption.

"I don't know what to do." John pauses. "If you're even listening."

Looking up from the computer scans about blood clotting he's reading, Sherlock nods. "It concerns me; I'm listening." Privately he thinks John would be better off breaking up with her. Not because he has any moral compunction about cheating, especially when Sarah is so dull and trite, but because he knows John does and the only reason he's not leaving her is because he feels poorly that he's cheated in the first place.

A smirk flickers across John's face. "You prick; you just want me to dump her."

"Maybe."

The smirk broadens into a grin. Sherlock thinks he'd like to fuck it off John's face, but he continues to read about the properties of hemoglobin in subzero temperatures. He's hearing whimpers, echoes of _harder, you bastard,_ lingering in his ears.

"And what would you do if I did?" The question is decadent, rough, raw. John has stopped moving. Sherlock wants to say that he'd have John flat on his back, split him apart while kissing him silly, but none of that crosses his lips.

"Take you to dinner without worrying that we'd get caught by one of her gossiping friends, and you'd go rushing away to apologize."

Wide, rough palms rest on his knees as John kneels to look him in the eyes. "Would you?"

Sherlock doesn't hesitate and he puts aside his papers. "Yes."

Later that evening, they're necking on the edge of his bed. It's the first time since he was seventeen— on holiday in Vienna, where he and Elsie Redgrave snuck away from Mycroft's boring litany of museums— that he creams his boxers, comes early, blushing not out of shame but at his temerity. The two circumstances are vastly different: when John feels the wet patch he grins, licks his fingers delicately, and resumes kissing Sherlock. Elsie swore and wiped come from her bare thigh like it was something corrosive.

* * *

Rain is pelting down and threatening to turn into hail as Sherlock makes his way back into 221B. He walks up the stairs as silently as he can, knowing that the sight of him in this state will drive John to near hysterics. It wasn't his fault they'd gotten separated during the chase; the thief had gone in one direction, John the other, and Sherlock tried to intercept in the best way he could calculate. How was he to know the lad knew maintenance tunnels that should have been closed off in the 1960's? And he certainly wasn't expecting him to be so good at man-to-man fighting. He has a split lip, the beginnings of a black eye, assorted bruises, and no culprit.

There are two male voices in the flat. Sherlock steels himself against the inevitable noises of concern before entering. John has a fire going; Lestrade sits in his chair while John occupies Sherlock's. "You look bloody awful." Lestrade eyes him with a professional wince. "We just picked him up not ten minutes ago; the bank codes were in his trouser pockets, the daft idiot."

Saying nothing, John stands and goes off to make tea. "I thought so," says Sherlock, gratefully settling in the chair John has just left. Logs crackle and flicker as moisture trickles down the chimney.

"Of course you did. Listen, I'm going to need you tomorrow morning to file reports." Lestrade knows that Sherlock will do no such thing. If he does show up, it will be in the afternoon or not at all. The detective gives a noncommittal grunt. Having spoken his official piece, the detective inspector rises, lingering in the doorway to say, "You really should see to that eye." He exchanges an unreadable look with John and leaves after shrugging on his heavy wool blazer. John doesn't hold any mugs, but he does have a bag of frozen peas in hand. Sherlock didn't know they had anything so mundane in their freezer. He's almost ashamed.

"I don't need that."

"Trust me, a brilliant purple and yellow shiner isn't as dapper as you'd think." John's tone is cheerful, but Sherlock knows he's trying to do an inventory of the ways his detective has gotten injured, even though Sherlock is still wearing his coat, the scarf that John so likes to twine around his wrists in bed, and a peevish expression.

Truth is, Sherlock's adrenaline is still in full swing and he doesn't have anything nearly so plebeian as pressing a bag of frozen vegetables against his face in mind. He's just run a quarter of the way across London. He levels John with a blazing look. Trying to demur, John puts the peas down on the table and slips into his best 'I'm a doctor' bland expression.

"I don't think I've ever been called dapper, John. Inventive. Incorrigible. Insatiable, even."

He licks his lips, tasting blood. John, even though he would never admit it in polite or mixed or polite, mixed company, has quite the blood kink. Sherlock could make a reasonable guess that he might not knowingly call it a kink. And he would never injure Sherlock in bed, but there had been one memorable time when Sherlock had accidentally sliced his palm open in the kitchen, and naturally John had seen to it with expert stitches. But before then, they'd fucked with Sherlock sprawled against the table, crimson streaked against John's torso, chin, and mouth.

Since then John avoids Sherlock if he's cut himself, unless there's keen reason for medical attention.

Sure enough, he catches his breath at the sight, eyes narrowing at the words. He comes closer to Sherlock and stands with his waist level to Sherlock's face. One of them wouldn't have to be a world class consulting detective to figure out what's going to happen next. "Blow me," says John.

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock stifles a laugh. The potential pain doesn't bother him; in fact, it's arousing when he thinks of John parting his mouth with his cock anyway, knowing full well Sherlock's lower lip has been busted and it must hurt, but not caring so long as he can come. He can almost taste the salt, the musk. But what he wants, what will get him off, isn't quite so subservient.

* * *

_What are your plans after work? -S.H._

_Not sure. Might be seeing a movie with Sarah. Why?_

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his mobile._ Make sure she's wearing a skirt and no pants beforehand, or it won't be worth it. ;)_

There's a notable pause before John replies._ That's not the only reason people go to the cinema._

_You're right; but it's the only reason /you/ do._

_Sherlock. Is there a new case or something?_ He can almost hear the warring exasperation and anticipation in John's tone.

_No._

_Then what?_

Pondering how much he really wants to say this, even if the idea of John losing himself in Sarah's cunt in a darkened movie theatre suddenly gives his plan new verve, Sherlock taps out a few variations of the same message, erasing each and marveling at the sensation of feeling hesitant. Finally he settles on the most direct. _I want to fuck you._

A stretch of minutes pass. One, two, three. Sherlock, sequestered warmly in his bed, starts to fidget under the covers.

_Bastard, I'm on duty and now I have to deal with being hard as stone. Seeing a young boy next. Thanks._

_Is that a yes?_

But there's no reply.

* * *

"Don't hide behind a text." John is harsh, arching up to meet his lips, shorter than he is but making up for it in strength. He's cornered Sherlock against a bookshelf, using the piece of furniture to keep him still, concentrated. A blistering kiss, teeth grazing his lips. Fingers raking his spine through cotton fabric. "What do you want?"

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, today is one day when Sherlock didn't have to wait for John to show up. "I told you."

Smiling, John nips at his jaw. It's hard enough to actually hurt, or leave a mark. "You texted me. I want to hear it. From the great Sherlock Holmes. I cancelled a dinner date for this." His hand slinks down Sherlock's thigh, narrowly avoiding his member.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock breathes in. "I want… to fuck you."

Fingers dance along his shaft, blunted by boxers. "How long have you wanted to? I've never been under the impression that it was your— forte."

That was true, somewhat: until he'd realized he wanted it, that it was what left him in sticky sheets in the morning and what drove him to come, gasping, into John's palm or onto his belly, it hadn't occurred to him to try. "Ages."

"All this time when I've been taking you, you've been thinking of screwing me." John pulls his hand away, voice gone low and honeyed. He takes Sherlock over to the sofa, a place where they've had sex more than a few times, and bears him down, their bodies landing together, taking Sherlock's weight with his own. "God, you need to eat more," he adds, more as an aside than with actual conviction.

His lips meet Sherlock's and their tongues lash, stroking, pulling. They work at each other's clothes: John has it easier than Sherlock, as the latter is wearing his standard home uniform of dressing gown and pants, but Sherlock fumbles with the buttons of John's shirt, his belt. Then both men are finally undressed and undone. He slowly registers that John is fairly trembling with excitement and it makes him suspicious. He bends down against John's neck, sucking with the intent to leave territorial, purplish discoloration, girlfriend be damned.

"You wanted this." Deliciously, John writhes against him.

"Maybe."

"Why didn't you say?"

"Obvious." Chuckling, Sherlock likes that his own word is being slung at his question.

"You wanted me to ask."

But it was also more than that. Sherlock thinks that he wanted to feel needed. Not simply to be asked.

He positions himself so that he can straddle John, and reaches under the sofa for lube that they'd secreted away from Mrs. Hudson's eyes weeks ago. It feels silky and cool on his hands, but soon warms to body temperature. When John bends his knees apart, Sherlock slowly works a finger into his tight hole, beckoning, figuring that what's good for the goose must be just as pleasurable for the gander— or something to that effect. John's reaction, somewhere between a wince and a cut-off keening, causes his cock to swell.

He works another finger in while ghosting his tongue over the bruise starting to appear on John's neck; John jerks and the finger disappears to the third knuckle.

It's just as good as a murmured, plaintive _please._

Which is what he's after, seeing as he doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to hold back, resist coming the second he enters John. He withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his straining cock after rubbing it down with a cursory amount of lube, wincing at the all-encompassing sensation. It is tight, almost painful. John, helping, wanting this as much as he did, shifts beneath him with a stifled "fuck yes." It's enough for him to thrust in completely and he digs his nails into John's hips, trying to acclimate, biting his lip.

There's a moment where he struggles to find his pace, but John guides his hand to his cock, and that familiar gesture grounds him very much in the here and now. The feeling itself is wonderful, rocking against John's arse and into his hole as he manipulates his hard-on, fingers wet with the lube and John's seeping fluids.

Skin flushed beneath him, John's eyes are half open and he's watching Sherlock as far as he can. Vaguely, Sherlock wonders if he looks just as beguiling in the same situation. Probably not.

He flicks his thumb very gently along the head of John's cock, and while the gesture doesn't ordinarily produce such good results, John goes rigid and loses his control, not yelling, but giving a shuddering breath that ends on what could be _Christ, shit, fuck,_ or any mix of the three. It doesn't really matter. It's as Sherlock pictured it might be, warm liquid hitting his stomach, John looking beautifully debauched and spent, sated yet outside any coherent expression. Sherlock's hand falls to the side of the sofa, tacky with their fluids; the other finds its way to John's lips. He kisses it, weakly.

It's enough to push Sherlock to a finish, the one he's been seeking and hasn't found until now.

He comes, doubling over and buying his face in John's shoulder. Too surprised to shout. And comes, letting flickers of sensation range along his body from cock to fingertips. It isn't better, exactly, than receiving, but it's more drawn out, staggered, flaring into his mind and sustaining a glowing burn.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, but it's long enough for John to find his voice again. "Wish you could have asked sooner, you sod."

Sherlock bites his collarbone in reply, earning a short laugh.

"Fair enough." He moves to stroke Sherlock's hair, lulling him into a sleepy, hazy contentment.


End file.
